Kite: A Suspension

I found my poem on my back in the middle of the yard, eyes trained on a slate veil of sky. My poem shuttered as wind bounced off her paper flesh, clothed in ruby ribbon and a dust of pollen. She flew above me, diamond silhouette suspended in November air, even lift and weight, thrust and drag. My poor poem lingered, propelled and tugged in all directions until left to hover in the static nebulous of her labored flight. As I lay beneath her, I felt the energy store, some potential for motion. Head turned to the side, I batted my eyes in slow, practiced beats. Grass brushed against lashes, elicited a muffled click, the fanned tendrils caught by notches in verdant stalks. I relished in the friction my poem would never know.

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